Metaphysics-Free
Istanbul
There is no metaphysics in Istanbul. It’s a city in which whatever there
is, can be seen. You can see the wealth, you can see the poverty, you can see
the rich, you can see the poor. You can see who believes in God and who doesn’t
believe in god. And you can see the sea through great open windows, curtained
so there’s light between your eyes and the world outside. You can see
from the numberless street cafés where people sit and drink and talk
and pay homage to the verb “to see”. And you can see from the ferries
because what you can see can also be seen. Nothing is hidden.
Leaving the ferry
terminal in Kadikoy, in Asia, the boat passes dozens of black herons, stationary
on the water like soldiers guarding some important post. And once out in the
Sea of Marmara, with Asia on my right and Europe on my left, I remember the
words of my friend Cevat whom I left hunched over a French translation of Herberto
Hélder’s Poema Continuo: “Existentialism is impossible in
the Turkish language. A language can’t say what it doesn’t have.
As you well know we don’t have a verb “to have” so have you
realised that in Turkish there’s no way of saying “Turkish doesn’t
have the verb “to have”? In fact the Turkish language is a strange
interior world. On these huge passenger ferries which ply between Kadikoy and
Besiktas, you can smoke on deck and drink tea and eat simit (a small horseshoe-shaped
cake covered with sesame seeds), which explains the innumerable seagulls avid
for a taste of this sweetmeat. I’m always reminded, somewhat apprehensively,
of Hitchcock’s film. Being a slave to memory is unavoidable. And amongst
the tobacco fumes and the scent of tea we enter the Bosphorus, the seagulls
and I, each with our own dependences. Someone asks me if I have a light or,
rather “Is there your light?” I smile in memory of my friend Cevat
and pass him the lighter. I get “Many thanks” in return. We dock
in Besiktas; we’ve arrived in Europe in twenty minutes.
On the quay awaits
another friend, Ersan, with whom I’m learning about the Hittite, Byzantine
and Ottoman cultures. Our conversation continues of course in a tavern, next
to the ferry terminal, amongst glasses of raki and cheese and melon. “Our
problem” he says, “is that we don’t know which heritage to
claim as our own. Are we descendents of the Hittites or the Byzantines? Of the
Ottomans or of the Ataturk revolution? And if we accept an Ottoman inheritance,
wouldn’t that be against the Turkish Republic? What are we, you tell me?” As
far as I’m concerned, I think, the food seems somewhat Ottoman and Mediterranean,
the way of drinking and state organization seem Byzantine and the aspiration
to EU membership seems pretty Ataturkian. We drink, we eat, and we savour the
silence engendered by the drinking of raki. We say nothing, we feel crushed
by the immensity of the past that hinders our attempt at understanding. We look
at the ferries, the seagulls, the Bosphorus,the beautiful women embarking and
disembarking, women in mini-skirts and figure-hugging trousers or in ample gowns
and headscarves. What happens to us is that, faced by the majestic universe
of history, we end up by inadvertently being swallowed up by the incomprehensibility
of the present. “Do you want a lift?” He asks. I refuse, saying
I’ll stay a bit longer with the silence of the raki and then get a bus.
The bill’s on me today. We kiss and part.
I think of the Hittite tomb
in Kaleykoy, on the Mediterranean, between Olympus and Kas, half submerged in
the water. I also think about my friend João with whom, three years ago,
I left there at night by boat to hunt wild boar on this sea’s little islands.
If we couldn’t hunt, we’d cast nets and fish. What was certain was
that we’d return home laden with death. Death that we’d cook and
eat. We would subjugate death to feed ourselves. We felt close to the tomb in
the middle of the sea, close to an inexpressible past. On the way to the bus
stop I stop yet another seller of computer programmes: “All three million” or
all only one euro and eighty cents. And I feel a certain satisfaction when I
place the notes in the boy’s hand; I stupidly feel that I’m dealing
a blow for world capitalism. Sometimes stupid acts aid living more than intelligent
ones. The bus, at this time of day, is of course full, which leaves me closer
to myself. It is at these moments that I become fully conscious that I’m
not from here. It’s like a sign on my forehead: I’m a foreigner.
But there I go, the Bosphorus ahead, in the direction of the Black Sea and wondering
what Cevat had thought of Herberto Hélder’s poems. After passing
Arnavutkoy, on the other side of the Bosphorus, in Asia, the small palace where
the sultans used to spend their summers is all lit up with a white light which
inundates the darkness of the water, attempting to compete with the full moon,
enormous, always so enormous, so close to Istanbul.
I can’t miss it and
get off at the next stop. I go back towards the taverns of Arnavutkoy, the white
of the moon and the palace bringing back the memory of the white of the raki.
It’s bonito season, the fish fried and served with roquette. One plate,
of course! Yes Mr. Irfan, bring raki, but without water. Just ice. The fish
has had all the water it needs in the sea. It’s always safe, that joke.
The tavern isn’t full, so there isn’t the annoyance of the noise
from other people’s conversations. Nor is it empty, and one is thus protected
from the exaggerated melancholy that the white of the moon, the palace and the
raki (once the ice starts to dilute it) produce in more sensitive livers. And
here the raki is always of the best, 50% alcohol, with a photograph of Turkish
poets on the label. So there again, I have in front of me, on the table, my
friend Cevat. And, yes, this is a beautiful tribute to poetry, to put the poets
on bottles of what is good! With a smile and a plate of bonito in his hand,
Mr. Irfan tells me that the season of the much appreciated anchovies will start
soon. Of course I know! I always know these things! Soon the pilgrimages to
the taverns will begin in search of this gift from the Black Sea. I continue
with the raki long after the fish has gone. And, now with no customers, Mr Irfan,
as usual, sits himself down at my table. He takes two glasses, pours raki with
ice and water into one and in the other just water. He’s a classic this
Mr Irfan. It’s not long before he starts tearing off the politicians and
the coach of Galatasaray football club (of which he’s a fan and which
this year has gone from bad to worse). I drink with him to that. Politicians
are politicians and football is football! Tautologies are always safe too, here
in this Arnavutkoy tavern. The bottle will have to be emptied, I end up by saying.
He laughs, agrees and calls me (as he always does at this time of night) the “crazy
Portuguese”. I call him the mad man of the Black Sea and we fill up our
glasses again.
It’s very late when I go home. I get a taxi. For Baltalimani,
please. And I again get a glimpse of that outside look, that of the foreigner.
And this time it’s not because there are too many people but because I’ve
had too much to drink. Once home I sit on the balcony and look out at the
Bosphorus. The cargo ships and the oil freighters pass by like ghosts. I think
that, dark
as they are , we are only able to see them with the memory of the light of
day. Before going to bed, I listen to Cevat’s voice again on the answering-machine: “I
liked the poet that you left for me to read here in the house. Many, many
thanks”.
Not at all, Cevat, I’m pleased. Tomorrow we’ll be having more of
metaphysics-free Istanbul.
Istanbul, October 2003
Translated by Jonathan Weightman
in «Tabacaria», Lisboa, 2003